


Lazy Sundays

by epeolatry



Series: Halcyon Days [6]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Drinking, Hangover, Homophobic Language, Illegal Activities, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 07:38:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1932354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epeolatry/pseuds/epeolatry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lazy hungover Sunday morning at Grantaire and Eponine's flat</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lazy Sundays

Éponine struggled through the haze of drug-induced sleep into wakefulness and immediately wished she hadn’t bothered; she opened her eyes to find herself cradled in an armpit, unmistakably Feuilly’s due to the red hair that tickled her grimacing face. She groaned quietly and lifted her head, finding herself on the living room floor of her own apartment and _not_ naked for a change, though Feuilly seemed to be wearing only his boxers.

 

On her other side lay Grantaire, still wearing his jeans and boots but for some reason shirtless, curled into her back like an affectionate kitten. Feuilly’s stomach was being used as a pillow by Jehan, the poet’s long, fair hair splayed elegantly across Feuilly’s freckled skin. Jehan was wearing an old pair of Éponine’s leggings and his own colourful singlet, and being spooned by Montparnasse who was still fully dressed including his boots and leather jacket, and sweating profusely as a result.

 

Around the sprawl of bodies were littered a large number of empty and half-empty bottles, two full ashtrays, and a few empty baggies now containing only the residue of powder or the tiniest crumbs of weed.

 

As she carefully extricated herself from the heap of sleeping bodies and made her way into the tiny adjoined kitchen for a glass of water, the events of the previous night swam slowly into focus; they had all gone along to one of Bahorel’s fights… It had been a bloody and near thing but he’d won… Montparnasse had smirkingly collected a handful of notes from a bookie, then promptly exchanged them for a variety of illegal substances… Everyone else had been flat broke so they wound up staggering back to the flat… A swirl of vodka, beer, weed smoke, lines of coke, and shots of absinthe obscured the rest of her memory…

 

“Wh’time s’it?” asked Grantaire groggily from the floor.

 

“I would guess day time,” mused Éponine, glancing at the light filtering through the holey bed sheets they had taped up as makeshift curtains, before downing her third cup of water.

 

Grantaire’s shift in position caused Feuilly to startle awake, then immediately clutch a hand to his head, groan, and grope around under the couch for the pack of cigarettes he had evidently stashed there. Éponine tossed him a box of matches as the redhead slapped Grantaire’s hand away with a deep growl. Grantaire grumbled and stretched, cracking his neck loudly and yawning as Jehan and Montparnasse began to stir.

 

“Sorry to break up the slumber party boys,” said Éponine, as Jehan blushingly unwrapped his arm from around Feuilly’s upper thigh, “But I’m making coffee. Who wants?”

 

The chorus of grunts that greeted this proposition indicated a group consensus.

 

“Where’s Bahorel?” asked Feuilly idly, exhaling in a cloud as everyone blearily rearranged themselves into sitting positions.

 

“No idea,” croaked Grantaire, as Montparnasse finally shucked off his leather jacket and Jehan leaned over to kiss his boyfriend’s cheek before getting up to help Éponine with the coffee.

 

“He’ll show up, he definitely came back with us last night,” verified Montparnasse, flicking his engraved Zippo and sparking up a Sobranie black Russian, “Has anyone checked the bathroom? He’s probably asleep in the tub.”

 

“That lump?” laughed Éponine as she delegated most of the coffee making to Jehan, “He wouldn’t fit!”

 

At that moment the door of the bedroom at the end of the hall swung open and Bahorel staggered out, wincing and clutching his head, streaks of dried blood still smeared across his bruised face and making him look nightmarish, if not for the comically short pair of stripy pyjama pants he had evidently borrowed from Grantaire.

 

“Hey big guy,” crowed Grantaire, “How you feeling?”

 

Bahorel groaned distastefully as he replied, “My mouth tastes like blood and vomit.”

 

“Don’t worry, most of it’s not your blood,” supplied Montparnasse helpfully, blowing a casual smoke ring.

 

Bahorel made a face, “I hope it’s my vomit at least.”

 

“Occam’s Razor says yes,” replied Grantaire laconically, “But it’s best not to rule out all possibilities.”

 

“Coffee?” offered Jehan brightly, trotting over to Bahorel with a steaming mug.

 

“You,” groaned Bahorel, petting Jehan’s head as he took the proffered coffee, “Are a much better friend than any of these wasters.”

 

“I _made_ the coffee,” Éponine pointed out.

 

“I let you sleep in my bed!” protested Grantaire.

 

“I paid your rent for the last two months,” Feuilly added huffily.

 

“I supplied your Class As last night,” Montparnasse reminded him with a sharply raised eyebrow.

 

“Ugh,” conceded Bahorel, “Fine. You’re all perfect human beings. Now who’s going to lend me a toothbrush?”

 

Even Jehan blanched at that, and Feuilly laughed huskily, “I’d recommend a shower first, mate.”

 

Bahorel twitched his eyebrows, “And will you be joining me?”

 

“Fuck off!” scoffed Feuilly, turning slightly red.

 

Grantaire rolled his eyes and mouthed, “ _Faggots_ ,” to Jehan, who giggled as he settled himself between Montparnasse’s outstretched legs.

 

“You are such a bunch of children,” sighed Éponine in exasperation, passing Grantaire his coffee and flopping down onto the couch.

 

“Takes one to know one,” muttered Montparnasse childishly, before pulling out a joint and lighting it, inhaling deeply and passing it to Jehan. Jehan took a hit then passed it to Feuilly, who passed to Grantaire, who passed to Éponine, who passed to Bahorel, who passed back to Montparnasse, who was beginning to feel pretty damn good under the pall of smoke, with strong, hot coffee in his belly and Jehan resting sweetly against his chest. It was a sentiment he hadn’t realised he’d voiced aloud, but Jehan’s dopey giggle and whisper of, “I love you too,” seemed to imply that he had.

 

“Dude… PDA,” chuckled Bahorel as Jehan shifted to face Montparnasse and kissed him deeply, both tasting like smoke and coffee and neither caring about their morning breath as their tongues slid together.

 

Everyone watched the increasingly steamy make out session in stoned silence for a few minutes, until Jehan began pawing at the front of Montparnasse’s jeans and Feuilly rasped abruptly, “Bahorel, shower?”

 

They disappeared into the bathroom together at the same time that Montparnasse and Jehan stumbled toward Éponine and Grantaire’s bedroom, slamming the door behind them.

 

Grantaire unconcernedly plucked the still smouldering joint out of an ashtray, took a drag and passed it to Éponine, saying on his exhale, “Just you and me huh?”

 

“Forget it Romeo,” she blew a derisive smoke ring at him, “I’m way out of your league.”

 

“Darling, you’re a different ball game altogether.”

 

“And you’re batting for the other team anyway.”

 

They dissolved into smoky giggles at their absurd overuse of sporting metaphors as they finished the last of the joint.

 

“We’re both going to die alone aren’t we?” said Grantaire with a laugh that didn’t match the sentiment expressed.

 

Éponine snorted, “Speak for yourself! I plan to invest in a cat. Or ten.”

 

Another fit of giggles overtook them both until Éponine laughed so hard she fell off the sofa and onto Grantaire, winding them both. Once they had recovered their breath Grantaire cracked open two warm beers left over from the night before and passed one to Éponine, saying, “I love you ‘Ponine.”

 

Éponine rolled her eyes in mock revulsion, “Love you too, you soppy moron.”


End file.
